You Thought My Path In Life

You talk.
So much.
My dearest friend.
That I have run
Out of paper,
And ink,
To record each
Precious word.
My poor hand is
Worn to tough leather.
From being your
Adoring scribe.

You share.
Too much.
My dearest friend.
That with each
Mark and scratch,
As incomplete as
They may be.
I have stolen enough
From your mind.
To ensure my fame
For many a year
And more.